This too late afternoon
My Mother,
Her eyes like withering roses,
Came to me down the long hill to my house
And I,
At my door,
Holding an empty gasoline can
On my way to the gas station
With the smallness of my son’s hand in mine,
Choked with my silence
And with numb ears heard you were dead.
Heard you died
While I talked next month with the Yale professor.

Not knowing why at the time
I carried on
And in one continuous motion
Picked up the rhythm of my life again
And into the truck with my son
And down to the gas station
And back to start the mower
And mowed in the rain
Like a madman in a trance
Until wet as a river
No one could tell the tears from the raindrops.
And all the while
In my mind
I saw you standing there
Between the shuttle car and the continuous miner
With your upraised hand
And unspoken words
As the killer rock slid down upon you.

I wanted to day to you then
What I had wanted to say to you every day
As we passed
Going in the opposite directions.

Mike,
If I could
I would was the black from your face,
Lift the rock from your heart,
Breathe life back into your lungs,
And make you speak to me again.
But now all I can do is embrace your widow
And the little blonde haired boy
Who stumbled down the high steps
Leading from the church
And kiss the two wide-eyed girls
You left behind
Who will know you only as a leaf
That fell ages and ages ago.

Today
The blackest roses bloom
And their shadow
Is a shadow
In the shadow
Of your tomb.